Cracks in the Pavement Ch5
Jun. 20th, 2008 11:29 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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vigorli
TITLE: Cracks in the Pavement
AUTHOR: LenaLove
BETAS:
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liriel1810 and ranmaru *adores* BANNER: made by the talented
paulabm Brill, isn't it? A.N. For full header and disclaimer, see ch 1.
A.N.2: I don't claim that the good old British National Health service would be this neglectful of a patient suffering a serious back injury. This is all totally untrue and written purely for enjoyment.
Chapter 5:
Everyone hated mornings, Orlando supposed, as he sleepily reached out a hand, with one eye cracked open and a groan lodged in his throat. He swatted at his alarm clock repeatedly until he eventually hit the right button and switched the annoying buzzing off.
Yeah, he really hated mornings the most. Every last one of them.
His alarm would go off, waking him up from a nice erotic dream, his neglected libido running rampant while he slept. He would lie still for a moment and contemplate his day, maybe ignoring his morning wood for as long as he could before taking care of it. He would delay it for as long as possible most mornings, simply because it was nice to lie there in warmth and comfort and pretend that as soon as he moved he wouldn’t be hit by the crippling pain in his back.
It was always the worst in the mornings, probably from lying in the one position for so long all night. That was something he never used to do, lie still; but had been doing so pretty much every night since his accident. Colin used to moan all the time that Orlando constantly moved in his sleep; rolling over him one minute, lying on top of him the next, throwing out an arm and thumping him in the chest or back the next. The two of them used to laugh about it and Colin would admit that he didn’t mind that much, that it made sense anyway as Orlando was always on the move when he was awake. Dashing about to get organised in the morning for ‘tech, always in a rush and eager to be out, whether it was to go clubbing with their friends at night or jogging in the park in the afternoon with Colin’s big dog Rufus loping after him.
What he hated was that he had to move; get up out of his bed, go through his ablutions and get dressed. That he would be hit with the fact that he no longer dashed anywhere. He no longer moved in a hurry to be off doing something.
He couldn’t.
Not any more.
And he hated it.
Now his mornings involved careful and deliberate movement to get him up off the bed with as little pain as possible, then a long shower with the water so hot he came out as red as a lobster, just so his back would loosen up enough to enable him to climb into his clothes and face his day.
Standing before the sink in fresh boxers, his hair still dripping from his shower, Orlando rinsed his razor in the soapy water and raised it again to his face. He paused before completing the motion as something behind him caught his eye in the mirror, the razor frozen in the air mere inches from his angled, foam covered jaw. Billy had installed a full length mirror on the wall beside the bathroom door. Orlando wasn’t quite sure why but he had his own sneaking suspicions it had more to do with the joint showers his two friends took than vanity.
What the second mirror did was allow him an almost perfect view of his back when he stood at the sink. The two mirrors offered him an unobstructed reflection of the twelve inch scar.
He hated seeing the stark physical manifestation of his pain but it was there, as clear as day; a long silvery pink line that cut his back in two. It was almost perfectly straight, starting just below his shoulder blades and tapering off at the small of his back, the scar tissue thicker in the middle where the surgeons had to cut into him a second time to remove the titanium bolts and screws that held his spine together. He could see the slightly raised bump in his spine halfway down that marked the place where the surgeon had had to leave one of the screws still in place, too deep to remove. That three inch screw was part of him now, incorporated into the regrowth of bone in the healed vertebrae. The little bump was where most of his pain radiated from.
He remembered the surgeon explaining to him at the time that the screw was not supposed to be left in and would more than likely cause him problems, but that it would be too dangerous to remove. That it would probably always give him pain but there was nothing he could do about it.
The surgeon had almost been callous in his explanation, so matter-of-fact and final as he spoke of muscle spasms and nerve damage and calcium deposits.
“You will always have some degree of discomfort, Orlando,” the man had told him. “…and eventually it could worsen as the continuing bone growth around the titanium screw puts pressure on the surrounding scar tissue. We don’t have the resources here to remove it safely, so you will just have to learn to live with it. The more active you are the less likely the screw will cause problems. Keep mobile, and we will see about getting you some full-time physiotherapy.” The surgeon then had the gall to smile. “Hey, at least you can walk. Be thankful of that, son!”
Orlando was thankful that he only had to endure the paralysis and excruciating pain and staring at the ceiling for four days before they had operated on his spine. He was thankful that he could work, he could go to the technical college and resume his art course. He was thankful that he didn’t have to view the world at waist height from a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
It was the daily pain he had trouble living with. And the fact that he had yet to receive that physiotherapy the NHS had promised.
With a heartfelt sigh, Orlando shook the depressing thoughts from his head and finished shaving, washing off the last of the foam and patting his face dry with a towel as he limped back into his bedroom to finish getting dressed.
For such a small two-bed roomed flat, his bedroom was surprisingly large, almost twice the size of the room Billy and Dom shared. His used to be the smallest room in the rather poky but cosy flat the three young men called home and their room used to be the big double room closest to the small bathroom. It was two years ago, the day that he had come home from the hospital that he found out the room arrangements had changed while he had been away.
He remembered standing in the middle of the room that day, with his friends proudly behind him after ushering him inside, the two men with silly little smiles on their faces as they gauged his reaction. He had stood there, balanced precariously on crutches that he hadn’t quite got the hang of yet and surveyed the room that now had his old stereo and CD stack in the corner instead of theirs, his clothes in the big wardrobe, and a brand new king-sized duvet on the double bed.
Orlando hadn’t been able to say a word to either of them for a long time.
He had turned wordlessly and hobbled his way past the puzzled faces of his two friends and swung precariously the short distance to his old room, opening the door and taking in the two single beds squashed together; their stereo in the corner, their CD rack, their clothes falling out of the tiny wardrobe that used to be his.
He had protested, of course.
No way was it fair; the two lovers needed the bigger room. He could manage just fine in the smaller room and anyway, he usually spent the night over at Colin’s place. But Billy and Dom had insisted and eventually Orlando had to give in and accept that they needed to do this for him. As it turned out, it wasn’t long before Orlando was no longer spending the night over at Colin’s anyway and he realised that he did need the bigger room to be able to manoeuvre in the mornings and have his hot showers when his back was at its worst. He loved Billy and Dom like brothers and he couldn’t imagine anyone else going to such trouble for him.
Shower and dressing finally accomplished, Orlando limped his way to the kitchenette to find that as usual either Billy or Dom had made him toast and left out his favourite yellow mug beside the kettle, complete with tea bag inside. His matching yellow cereal bowl was on the table for him, a box of cornflakes beside it, the milk left out, his friend’s own dishes already washed and stacked away in the cupboard. They even set out a glass of water in the middle of the small table every morning, his anti-inflammatory pills beside it - the ones he was supposed to take every day to stop his back locking up later.
He appreciated that the two men did all that near enough every day, just so he wouldn’t have to move any more than he had to. And he hated with a vengeance how totally helpless it made him feel.
But he had never told his two friends that last part, and he never would. Billy and Dom didn’t need to know how much he hated that they did those things for him. They didn’t have to know that he didn’t need reminding how different his life was now, and probably always would be.
God, how he hated the mornings. He missed his old life, he missed always being on the go. He missed Colin. He even missed Rufus.
But Orlando didn’t let it get him down today. There were the classes at his art course to get through, his project finally finished and ready to be handed in to his tutor. He was back to work again and today after his course he was pencilled in for his usual evening shift at Bernie’s, from 7pm until closing at 11. He was sharing the shift with Billy as it was Thursday night, Bingo night, and one of the busiest times in the little Mini Mart.
He was even meeting his mum later for lunch in the little corner café around from the technical college. Her treat, of course. Orlando hadn’t seen her in a couple of weeks, bar one quick visit and many phone calls after he got home again from the hospital after his run-in with Hawkins. His shoulder was almost fully healed now, he would barely even have a scar once the scab cleared, with any luck.
Yeah, there was a lot to be thankful for, Orlando thought as he ate his toast and cereal, drank his tea and knocked back his little pill, before grabbing his bag and art folder and heading for the door of the flat.
He closed and locked the door behind him, then prayed silently that the lift to the ground floor hadn’t packed up again. That was always his one last grumble in the mornings.
It had happened a couple of times in the past two years, the lift breaking down. One time he had been heading out to the pub with Billy and Dom and the two men had patiently and calmly helped him manoeuvre the three flights of stairs. It had been a bit of a trial but he had made it safely to the bottom eventually, albeit exhausted. The trip back up at the end of the night had been more fun, seeing as the three of them had been three sheets to the wind and Orlando wasn’t the only one stumbling over his feet. The three of them had been giggling and cursing so loudly, they had woken up half of the building.
Luckily though, the lift was working just fine this morning. He reached the ground floor and was at the front door to the building, about to brave the outside world when a voice called him back.
“Orli!” Mrs. McCullough, the landlord’s wife, hollered in her lilting Irish brogue as she came bustling out of the dingy little office below the stairs. “Hold up, sweetie. I’ve got a letter for you. I was just about to send the boss up to bring it to you.” She waddled towards Orlando, merrily flapping a brown envelope in his direction. “Here you go, petal.”
“Thanks, Mrs. McCullough.” Orlando took the envelope from her with a grateful smile as the portly little woman beamed up into his face. The top of her tightly wound bun of silver-grey hair only reached as high as his chest.
“You’re welcome, dearest.” She turned to head back into her office. “I hope it’s the one you’ve been waiting for, Orli. Let me know, won’t you luv?” And with that she was gone, leaving him standing there in the paint chipped foyer, his eyes wide and hands suddenly starting to shake.
Orlando had personally asked her that if any mail marked with the stamp of St. Thomas’ Hospital came for him, would she please make sure he got it immediately and didn’t just shove it into his mail box in the office where most of their mail went? The kindly woman had immediately promised, well aware of why any mail from the hospital was important to him. Like many women, Mrs. McCullough had long ago developed a soft spot for the three lads in Flat 3C, especially “that handsome young Orli”.
With trembling fingers, Orlando turned the envelope over in his hands. Sure enough, on the reverse side, printed right across the top of the well-stuck flap in bold, black lettering was the words:
IF UNDELIVERED, PLEASE RETURN TO: PHYSIOTHERAPY UNIT, ST. THOMAS’ HOSPITAL, DUKE STREET, LONDON.
Taking a deep breath Orlando steeled himself, then tore the envelope open and sharply pulled out the sheet of white letter-headed stationary from within, his eyes flying over the black print of the appointment card before he read it slower and more carefully a second time. It was as clear as day. He was scheduled to meet with a therapist named only as Michael for assessment in the hospital in the first Monday of the next month at 2.15pm.
Mrs. McCullough smiled happily to herself as she peeked from behind the door of her office as that handsome young Orli from 3C threw up one arm to punch the air with an enthusiastic “Fuck yeah!” before shoving his letter into his backpack and heading on out into the street to catch his usual morning bus to the technical college.
***
“You’re looking mighty chipper Orli,” Billy exclaimed from his perch behind the counter of Bernie’s Mini Mart where he had been pricing a box of Kit Kats.
The Scot had looked up automatically at the sound of the ding that announced the opening of the door, surprised to see Orlando practically bouncing into the shop, on time for once for his evening shift. As if the sudden punctuality wasn’t enough, it was the broad smile and the twinkle in his friend’s eye that gave him pause.
Billy cocked a curious eyebrow, watching as Orlando passed him by without replying, grinning broadly as he headed to the back of the store to stow his art folder. The grin was still there when his friend re-emerged and joined him behind the counter, taking up his spot on the high stool next to the till.
Billy couldn’t help but grin back at him. “So, ye gonna tell me why ye look like the cat that got the cream, or are you just going te make me guess?”
The younger man was swivelling on the stool now like a child struggling to keep in a huge secret, but before Billy could question him further, a stressed looking mother approached the counter with a basket full of groceries, three kids under five years of age under her feet.
Billy served her and Orlando silently bagged her shopping, but as soon as she was gone, Billy tried again.
“Right, tell me now, before I knock you off that bloody stool, Orli!”
Orlando laughed, sure in the fact that Billy would do no such thng, and decided to lend his friend's misery. “I got a letter in the post this morning, Bills. Hand delivered by Mrs. McCullough.”
The grin was back, complete with sparkling eyes and a rarely seen dimple on his right cheek that made Orlando appear younger than his twenty six years. With a flourish, he pulled the letter from his jeans pocket and handed it to the Scot.
Warily, Billy took the piece of paper, glancing once at Orlando for permission before unfolding it. He read it as Orlando watched. Then he read it again, and Orlando watched the grin that spread slowly across his friend’s face to match his own.
“Fuck, Orli…that’s brilliant, man!” The Scot restrained himself from jumping on the younger man and hugging him. He settled for a playful thump on Orlando's arm. “Bloody fuckin’ brilliant! Have you told yer mum yet?”
Orlando nodded, still swivelling on his stool like he couldn’t contain himself. “She shouted me lunch earlier, at the Cookie Jar Café. She’s stoked too, man.”
Billy handed him back the letter from the hospital and Orlando folded it carefully and put it back in his pocket.
“The letter said ye were going fer assessment. What does that mean, ye think?”
Orlando could only shrug. “I’m not sure, but I guess it’s a fitness thing, yeah? They probably need to sort out what kind of physio I need and how much, how often I need to go for therapy.”
His joy wasn’t to be curtailed for long though. The grin came back and he stood up from the stool, giving Billy a brief hug. “It’s good news, isn’t it Bills? It means that eventually I’ll be able to move about like a normal guy, yeah?” he asked, suddenly needing the reassurance. Orlando knew he had high hopes pinned on the success of the therapy. “I mean, I know it won’t happen overnight. It’ll take time, maybe a good few weeks before I notice any improvement, I guess. But still, it is good news!”
The younger man was grinning broadly again and Billy couldn’t help but be delighted for him, but a tiny doubt nagged at the back of his brain. He couldn’t help but be a little wary and cynical, doubting that a few exercises or massages or whatever the therapists did, would be the end of all of his friend’s pain. His elderly aunt had been to physiotherapy while she recovered from a hip replacement, and he could remember her moaning constantly at the time about the pain the therapist would put her through. He kept his concerns to himself, not wanting to dampen Orlando’s spirit. It had been far too long since Billy had seen his friend smile with such abandon.
For the rest of the evening shift, Orlando remained high spirited and as energetic as his disability allowed. Billy indulged him for a while, letting him restock the milk fridge when Orlando insisted, but only if he allowed Billy to pull the heavy milk trolleys from the big walk-in fridge from out in the back yard first. When eventually Orlando did begin to flag and Billy had caught him wincing more than once, the younger man was relegated to the handling of the till and charming the customers while Billy managed the restocking of shelves and keeping the shop as clean and tidy as Bernie liked.
The younger man’s good mood wasn’t to be deterred and Billy shook his head with a grin as he worked away and listened to Orlando babble in a constant stream to the customers, laughing and joking with the kids, sympathising with the harassed mums and flirting unconsciously with the old dears as he rang up their purchases, no doubt buying more than what they had come in for.
When he was in this good of a mood, Orlando could sell snow to the Eskimos.
Billy was out of sight down the middle aisle as he heard Orlando get himself into a complicated discussion with a lad named Jimmy about the intricacies of a car radiator, something Orlando hadn’t got a clue about. Jimmy was twenty three and was in Dom’s Car Mechanic course at the technical college, and he made no secret of the fact that he'd had a huge crush on Orlando since secondary school.
The Scot briefly contemplated playing matchmaker between the two of them, but decided against it.
Jimmy was a nice enough guy, trying to better himself so he could earn a decent wage, enough to support his alcoholic father and six siblings in their poky little flat on the council estate. Orlando preferred men his own age or older, and while not particularly ugly Jimmy wasn’t the handsomest, with his bright ginger hair and pale freckled face. He was shy too, acting rather bashful around Orlando whenever he was in the shop, but Orlando had a knack for putting people at ease. The two of them were deep in a discussion about something called Red Magic, an over-the-counter bottle they sold in the shop along with pine tree car fresheners and car wash sponges.
Jimmy was elaborating to an oblivious Orlando how this Red Magic stuff could seal a leak in a radiator until the driver got time to take his car in to get it fixed properly. He was explaining how it worked in great detail, while Orlando “hmmed” and “aahed” in all the right places.
Billy smiled in amusement as he re-arranged the loaves of bread by the far wall and sorted out yesterday's to put on the half price shelf. The ding of the door announced another customer and he looked up and around the corner to see a rather good looking guy in new looking jeans and shirt, expensive looking trainers and rather unkempt but clean blondish hair. The man looked vaguely familiar, not a regular but Billy had the feeling he should know his name. The Scot watched as the new arrival headed straight to the counter and Billy lost sight of him behind the tin aisle. He had definitely seen the man before.
Bored silly by Jimmy and his car radiators Orlando gratefully registered the ding of the door and the form of a man approach him from behind Jimmy. He cast his eye over Jimmy’s shoulder as the kid kept up his running spiel, taking in the tall, handsome form, the blond hair, the attractive cleft in a noble chin.
Jimmy’s voice faded into the background as the two men locked gazes. Orlando was sure his own chin hit the floor, he was so shocked. The last person he ever expected to see again was Viggo.
Warmth flooded his being when cool blue eyes twinkled and Viggo smiled in greeting. The American looked good, a lot better than when he had last seen him and he hoped he looked a hell of a lot better now too.
“Evening, Yank,” Orlando teased, all attempts to be cool floating out of the window as he felt his face split in two by a huge grin.
Finally registering that he had lost his audience, Jimmy looked over his shoulder at the older man behind him, taking in the smile on his face and intense blue eyes focused on Orli. Turning back to Orlando, he saw the matching grin and starry-eyed look, and once more he had to except the fact that the tall gorgeous brunett with the limp wasn't going to be his. Jimmy tactfully picked up his bottle of Red Magic and exited the shop.
“Hey,” Viggo greeted warmly, his smile growing wider. “Nice to see you again. You okay, after our last little meeting here?”
Orlando cleared a suddenly dry throat, feeling suddenly nervous. “Yeah, man, I’m good. You?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
Clearing his throat again, Orlando suddenly found the impulse to tidy the copies of The Daily Mirror newspaper lying on the counter. “So, um…can I get you anything? You came in for Marlboro smokes, yeah?” A thought struck him, remembering their last fateful meeting. “You’re not lost, are you?” he teased.
The American's grin brightened. “I deserved that, I guess.” Viggo finally approached the counter and leaned his palms on the Formica top. “No, I’m not lost, thanks all the same. I was in the area, thought I’d pop in and see if you were on duty, see how are you are?”
“I’m good, thanks. But we already covered that subject.” Orlando’s eyes twinkled. “You were just in the area, were you? Yeah, we often get friends of famous movie stars popping in. Sure, just last week Jerry Bruckheimer called in for a pint of milk, said he was on his way to visit Dustin Hoffman.”
Viggo threw his head back and laughed, a warm throaty sound that sent bolts of electricity to Orlando’s toes. “You're a real comedian, Orlando,” he chuckled.
The younger man winked smugly. “I have my moments.”
“Okay, I guess I’ve been busted.” Serious again, Viggo met the brown eyes squarely and took the bull by the horns, so to speak. “I was wondering if you would care to accompany me on a date tomorrow sometime? It’s Saturday and I am hoping you've got the day off and if you're busy during the day... well then, maybe we could have dinner, or just coffee instead if you want…”
Orlando held up a hand to stop the nervous flow of words. “You're worse than me, with the babbling, Yank.” He grinned to take the sting out of the words.
“Maybe,” Viggo replied, his smile turning coy.. “So, what’s it to be? Do you want to go out tomorrow? With me?”
Neither man noticed the short balding Scot behind the tin aisle who stood with the fingers of both hands crossed and eyes closed, praying silently through gritted teeth. The American had walked right in off the street, saving Dom and him from tracking him down. Billy couldn't believe his luck. Now all he could do was pray Orlando wouldn't retreat into himself and turn the man down. The Scot prayed harder.
“Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes…"
TBC
Everyone hated mornings, Orlando supposed, as he sleepily reached out a hand, with one eye cracked open and a groan lodged in his throat. He swatted at his alarm clock repeatedly until he eventually hit the right button and switched the annoying buzzing off.
Yeah, he really hated mornings the most. Every last one of them.
His alarm would go off, waking him up from a nice erotic dream, his neglected libido running rampant while he slept. He would lie still for a moment and contemplate his day, maybe ignoring his morning wood for as long as he could before taking care of it. He would delay it for as long as possible most mornings, simply because it was nice to lie there in warmth and comfort and pretend that as soon as he moved he wouldn’t be hit by the crippling pain in his back.
It was always the worst in the mornings, probably from lying in the one position for so long all night. That was something he never used to do, lie still; but had been doing so pretty much every night since his accident. Colin used to moan all the time that Orlando constantly moved in his sleep; rolling over him one minute, lying on top of him the next, throwing out an arm and thumping him in the chest or back the next. The two of them used to laugh about it and Colin would admit that he didn’t mind that much, that it made sense anyway as Orlando was always on the move when he was awake. Dashing about to get organised in the morning for ‘tech, always in a rush and eager to be out, whether it was to go clubbing with their friends at night or jogging in the park in the afternoon with Colin’s big dog Rufus loping after him.
What he hated was that he had to move; get up out of his bed, go through his ablutions and get dressed. That he would be hit with the fact that he no longer dashed anywhere. He no longer moved in a hurry to be off doing something.
He couldn’t.
Not any more.
And he hated it.
Now his mornings involved careful and deliberate movement to get him up off the bed with as little pain as possible, then a long shower with the water so hot he came out as red as a lobster, just so his back would loosen up enough to enable him to climb into his clothes and face his day.
Standing before the sink in fresh boxers, his hair still dripping from his shower, Orlando rinsed his razor in the soapy water and raised it again to his face. He paused before completing the motion as something behind him caught his eye in the mirror, the razor frozen in the air mere inches from his angled, foam covered jaw. Billy had installed a full length mirror on the wall beside the bathroom door. Orlando wasn’t quite sure why but he had his own sneaking suspicions it had more to do with the joint showers his two friends took than vanity.
What the second mirror did was allow him an almost perfect view of his back when he stood at the sink. The two mirrors offered him an unobstructed reflection of the twelve inch scar.
He hated seeing the stark physical manifestation of his pain but it was there, as clear as day; a long silvery pink line that cut his back in two. It was almost perfectly straight, starting just below his shoulder blades and tapering off at the small of his back, the scar tissue thicker in the middle where the surgeons had to cut into him a second time to remove the titanium bolts and screws that held his spine together. He could see the slightly raised bump in his spine halfway down that marked the place where the surgeon had had to leave one of the screws still in place, too deep to remove. That three inch screw was part of him now, incorporated into the regrowth of bone in the healed vertebrae. The little bump was where most of his pain radiated from.
He remembered the surgeon explaining to him at the time that the screw was not supposed to be left in and would more than likely cause him problems, but that it would be too dangerous to remove. That it would probably always give him pain but there was nothing he could do about it.
The surgeon had almost been callous in his explanation, so matter-of-fact and final as he spoke of muscle spasms and nerve damage and calcium deposits.
“You will always have some degree of discomfort, Orlando,” the man had told him. “…and eventually it could worsen as the continuing bone growth around the titanium screw puts pressure on the surrounding scar tissue. We don’t have the resources here to remove it safely, so you will just have to learn to live with it. The more active you are the less likely the screw will cause problems. Keep mobile, and we will see about getting you some full-time physiotherapy.” The surgeon then had the gall to smile. “Hey, at least you can walk. Be thankful of that, son!”
Orlando was thankful that he only had to endure the paralysis and excruciating pain and staring at the ceiling for four days before they had operated on his spine. He was thankful that he could work, he could go to the technical college and resume his art course. He was thankful that he didn’t have to view the world at waist height from a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
It was the daily pain he had trouble living with. And the fact that he had yet to receive that physiotherapy the NHS had promised.
With a heartfelt sigh, Orlando shook the depressing thoughts from his head and finished shaving, washing off the last of the foam and patting his face dry with a towel as he limped back into his bedroom to finish getting dressed.
For such a small two-bed roomed flat, his bedroom was surprisingly large, almost twice the size of the room Billy and Dom shared. His used to be the smallest room in the rather poky but cosy flat the three young men called home and their room used to be the big double room closest to the small bathroom. It was two years ago, the day that he had come home from the hospital that he found out the room arrangements had changed while he had been away.
He remembered standing in the middle of the room that day, with his friends proudly behind him after ushering him inside, the two men with silly little smiles on their faces as they gauged his reaction. He had stood there, balanced precariously on crutches that he hadn’t quite got the hang of yet and surveyed the room that now had his old stereo and CD stack in the corner instead of theirs, his clothes in the big wardrobe, and a brand new king-sized duvet on the double bed.
Orlando hadn’t been able to say a word to either of them for a long time.
He had turned wordlessly and hobbled his way past the puzzled faces of his two friends and swung precariously the short distance to his old room, opening the door and taking in the two single beds squashed together; their stereo in the corner, their CD rack, their clothes falling out of the tiny wardrobe that used to be his.
He had protested, of course.
No way was it fair; the two lovers needed the bigger room. He could manage just fine in the smaller room and anyway, he usually spent the night over at Colin’s place. But Billy and Dom had insisted and eventually Orlando had to give in and accept that they needed to do this for him. As it turned out, it wasn’t long before Orlando was no longer spending the night over at Colin’s anyway and he realised that he did need the bigger room to be able to manoeuvre in the mornings and have his hot showers when his back was at its worst. He loved Billy and Dom like brothers and he couldn’t imagine anyone else going to such trouble for him.
Shower and dressing finally accomplished, Orlando limped his way to the kitchenette to find that as usual either Billy or Dom had made him toast and left out his favourite yellow mug beside the kettle, complete with tea bag inside. His matching yellow cereal bowl was on the table for him, a box of cornflakes beside it, the milk left out, his friend’s own dishes already washed and stacked away in the cupboard. They even set out a glass of water in the middle of the small table every morning, his anti-inflammatory pills beside it - the ones he was supposed to take every day to stop his back locking up later.
He appreciated that the two men did all that near enough every day, just so he wouldn’t have to move any more than he had to. And he hated with a vengeance how totally helpless it made him feel.
But he had never told his two friends that last part, and he never would. Billy and Dom didn’t need to know how much he hated that they did those things for him. They didn’t have to know that he didn’t need reminding how different his life was now, and probably always would be.
God, how he hated the mornings. He missed his old life, he missed always being on the go. He missed Colin. He even missed Rufus.
But Orlando didn’t let it get him down today. There were the classes at his art course to get through, his project finally finished and ready to be handed in to his tutor. He was back to work again and today after his course he was pencilled in for his usual evening shift at Bernie’s, from 7pm until closing at 11. He was sharing the shift with Billy as it was Thursday night, Bingo night, and one of the busiest times in the little Mini Mart.
He was even meeting his mum later for lunch in the little corner café around from the technical college. Her treat, of course. Orlando hadn’t seen her in a couple of weeks, bar one quick visit and many phone calls after he got home again from the hospital after his run-in with Hawkins. His shoulder was almost fully healed now, he would barely even have a scar once the scab cleared, with any luck.
Yeah, there was a lot to be thankful for, Orlando thought as he ate his toast and cereal, drank his tea and knocked back his little pill, before grabbing his bag and art folder and heading for the door of the flat.
He closed and locked the door behind him, then prayed silently that the lift to the ground floor hadn’t packed up again. That was always his one last grumble in the mornings.
It had happened a couple of times in the past two years, the lift breaking down. One time he had been heading out to the pub with Billy and Dom and the two men had patiently and calmly helped him manoeuvre the three flights of stairs. It had been a bit of a trial but he had made it safely to the bottom eventually, albeit exhausted. The trip back up at the end of the night had been more fun, seeing as the three of them had been three sheets to the wind and Orlando wasn’t the only one stumbling over his feet. The three of them had been giggling and cursing so loudly, they had woken up half of the building.
Luckily though, the lift was working just fine this morning. He reached the ground floor and was at the front door to the building, about to brave the outside world when a voice called him back.
“Orli!” Mrs. McCullough, the landlord’s wife, hollered in her lilting Irish brogue as she came bustling out of the dingy little office below the stairs. “Hold up, sweetie. I’ve got a letter for you. I was just about to send the boss up to bring it to you.” She waddled towards Orlando, merrily flapping a brown envelope in his direction. “Here you go, petal.”
“Thanks, Mrs. McCullough.” Orlando took the envelope from her with a grateful smile as the portly little woman beamed up into his face. The top of her tightly wound bun of silver-grey hair only reached as high as his chest.
“You’re welcome, dearest.” She turned to head back into her office. “I hope it’s the one you’ve been waiting for, Orli. Let me know, won’t you luv?” And with that she was gone, leaving him standing there in the paint chipped foyer, his eyes wide and hands suddenly starting to shake.
Orlando had personally asked her that if any mail marked with the stamp of St. Thomas’ Hospital came for him, would she please make sure he got it immediately and didn’t just shove it into his mail box in the office where most of their mail went? The kindly woman had immediately promised, well aware of why any mail from the hospital was important to him. Like many women, Mrs. McCullough had long ago developed a soft spot for the three lads in Flat 3C, especially “that handsome young Orli”.
With trembling fingers, Orlando turned the envelope over in his hands. Sure enough, on the reverse side, printed right across the top of the well-stuck flap in bold, black lettering was the words:
IF UNDELIVERED, PLEASE RETURN TO: PHYSIOTHERAPY UNIT, ST. THOMAS’ HOSPITAL, DUKE STREET, LONDON.
Taking a deep breath Orlando steeled himself, then tore the envelope open and sharply pulled out the sheet of white letter-headed stationary from within, his eyes flying over the black print of the appointment card before he read it slower and more carefully a second time. It was as clear as day. He was scheduled to meet with a therapist named only as Michael for assessment in the hospital in the first Monday of the next month at 2.15pm.
Mrs. McCullough smiled happily to herself as she peeked from behind the door of her office as that handsome young Orli from 3C threw up one arm to punch the air with an enthusiastic “Fuck yeah!” before shoving his letter into his backpack and heading on out into the street to catch his usual morning bus to the technical college.
“You’re looking mighty chipper Orli,” Billy exclaimed from his perch behind the counter of Bernie’s Mini Mart where he had been pricing a box of Kit Kats.
The Scot had looked up automatically at the sound of the ding that announced the opening of the door, surprised to see Orlando practically bouncing into the shop, on time for once for his evening shift. As if the sudden punctuality wasn’t enough, it was the broad smile and the twinkle in his friend’s eye that gave him pause.
Billy cocked a curious eyebrow, watching as Orlando passed him by without replying, grinning broadly as he headed to the back of the store to stow his art folder. The grin was still there when his friend re-emerged and joined him behind the counter, taking up his spot on the high stool next to the till.
Billy couldn’t help but grin back at him. “So, ye gonna tell me why ye look like the cat that got the cream, or are you just going te make me guess?”
The younger man was swivelling on the stool now like a child struggling to keep in a huge secret, but before Billy could question him further, a stressed looking mother approached the counter with a basket full of groceries, three kids under five years of age under her feet.
Billy served her and Orlando silently bagged her shopping, but as soon as she was gone, Billy tried again.
“Right, tell me now, before I knock you off that bloody stool, Orli!”
Orlando laughed, sure in the fact that Billy would do no such thng, and decided to lend his friend's misery. “I got a letter in the post this morning, Bills. Hand delivered by Mrs. McCullough.”
The grin was back, complete with sparkling eyes and a rarely seen dimple on his right cheek that made Orlando appear younger than his twenty six years. With a flourish, he pulled the letter from his jeans pocket and handed it to the Scot.
Warily, Billy took the piece of paper, glancing once at Orlando for permission before unfolding it. He read it as Orlando watched. Then he read it again, and Orlando watched the grin that spread slowly across his friend’s face to match his own.
“Fuck, Orli…that’s brilliant, man!” The Scot restrained himself from jumping on the younger man and hugging him. He settled for a playful thump on Orlando's arm. “Bloody fuckin’ brilliant! Have you told yer mum yet?”
Orlando nodded, still swivelling on his stool like he couldn’t contain himself. “She shouted me lunch earlier, at the Cookie Jar Café. She’s stoked too, man.”
Billy handed him back the letter from the hospital and Orlando folded it carefully and put it back in his pocket.
“The letter said ye were going fer assessment. What does that mean, ye think?”
Orlando could only shrug. “I’m not sure, but I guess it’s a fitness thing, yeah? They probably need to sort out what kind of physio I need and how much, how often I need to go for therapy.”
His joy wasn’t to be curtailed for long though. The grin came back and he stood up from the stool, giving Billy a brief hug. “It’s good news, isn’t it Bills? It means that eventually I’ll be able to move about like a normal guy, yeah?” he asked, suddenly needing the reassurance. Orlando knew he had high hopes pinned on the success of the therapy. “I mean, I know it won’t happen overnight. It’ll take time, maybe a good few weeks before I notice any improvement, I guess. But still, it is good news!”
The younger man was grinning broadly again and Billy couldn’t help but be delighted for him, but a tiny doubt nagged at the back of his brain. He couldn’t help but be a little wary and cynical, doubting that a few exercises or massages or whatever the therapists did, would be the end of all of his friend’s pain. His elderly aunt had been to physiotherapy while she recovered from a hip replacement, and he could remember her moaning constantly at the time about the pain the therapist would put her through. He kept his concerns to himself, not wanting to dampen Orlando’s spirit. It had been far too long since Billy had seen his friend smile with such abandon.
For the rest of the evening shift, Orlando remained high spirited and as energetic as his disability allowed. Billy indulged him for a while, letting him restock the milk fridge when Orlando insisted, but only if he allowed Billy to pull the heavy milk trolleys from the big walk-in fridge from out in the back yard first. When eventually Orlando did begin to flag and Billy had caught him wincing more than once, the younger man was relegated to the handling of the till and charming the customers while Billy managed the restocking of shelves and keeping the shop as clean and tidy as Bernie liked.
The younger man’s good mood wasn’t to be deterred and Billy shook his head with a grin as he worked away and listened to Orlando babble in a constant stream to the customers, laughing and joking with the kids, sympathising with the harassed mums and flirting unconsciously with the old dears as he rang up their purchases, no doubt buying more than what they had come in for.
When he was in this good of a mood, Orlando could sell snow to the Eskimos.
Billy was out of sight down the middle aisle as he heard Orlando get himself into a complicated discussion with a lad named Jimmy about the intricacies of a car radiator, something Orlando hadn’t got a clue about. Jimmy was twenty three and was in Dom’s Car Mechanic course at the technical college, and he made no secret of the fact that he'd had a huge crush on Orlando since secondary school.
The Scot briefly contemplated playing matchmaker between the two of them, but decided against it.
Jimmy was a nice enough guy, trying to better himself so he could earn a decent wage, enough to support his alcoholic father and six siblings in their poky little flat on the council estate. Orlando preferred men his own age or older, and while not particularly ugly Jimmy wasn’t the handsomest, with his bright ginger hair and pale freckled face. He was shy too, acting rather bashful around Orlando whenever he was in the shop, but Orlando had a knack for putting people at ease. The two of them were deep in a discussion about something called Red Magic, an over-the-counter bottle they sold in the shop along with pine tree car fresheners and car wash sponges.
Jimmy was elaborating to an oblivious Orlando how this Red Magic stuff could seal a leak in a radiator until the driver got time to take his car in to get it fixed properly. He was explaining how it worked in great detail, while Orlando “hmmed” and “aahed” in all the right places.
Billy smiled in amusement as he re-arranged the loaves of bread by the far wall and sorted out yesterday's to put on the half price shelf. The ding of the door announced another customer and he looked up and around the corner to see a rather good looking guy in new looking jeans and shirt, expensive looking trainers and rather unkempt but clean blondish hair. The man looked vaguely familiar, not a regular but Billy had the feeling he should know his name. The Scot watched as the new arrival headed straight to the counter and Billy lost sight of him behind the tin aisle. He had definitely seen the man before.
Bored silly by Jimmy and his car radiators Orlando gratefully registered the ding of the door and the form of a man approach him from behind Jimmy. He cast his eye over Jimmy’s shoulder as the kid kept up his running spiel, taking in the tall, handsome form, the blond hair, the attractive cleft in a noble chin.
Jimmy’s voice faded into the background as the two men locked gazes. Orlando was sure his own chin hit the floor, he was so shocked. The last person he ever expected to see again was Viggo.
Warmth flooded his being when cool blue eyes twinkled and Viggo smiled in greeting. The American looked good, a lot better than when he had last seen him and he hoped he looked a hell of a lot better now too.
“Evening, Yank,” Orlando teased, all attempts to be cool floating out of the window as he felt his face split in two by a huge grin.
Finally registering that he had lost his audience, Jimmy looked over his shoulder at the older man behind him, taking in the smile on his face and intense blue eyes focused on Orli. Turning back to Orlando, he saw the matching grin and starry-eyed look, and once more he had to except the fact that the tall gorgeous brunett with the limp wasn't going to be his. Jimmy tactfully picked up his bottle of Red Magic and exited the shop.
“Hey,” Viggo greeted warmly, his smile growing wider. “Nice to see you again. You okay, after our last little meeting here?”
Orlando cleared a suddenly dry throat, feeling suddenly nervous. “Yeah, man, I’m good. You?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
Clearing his throat again, Orlando suddenly found the impulse to tidy the copies of The Daily Mirror newspaper lying on the counter. “So, um…can I get you anything? You came in for Marlboro smokes, yeah?” A thought struck him, remembering their last fateful meeting. “You’re not lost, are you?” he teased.
The American's grin brightened. “I deserved that, I guess.” Viggo finally approached the counter and leaned his palms on the Formica top. “No, I’m not lost, thanks all the same. I was in the area, thought I’d pop in and see if you were on duty, see how are you are?”
“I’m good, thanks. But we already covered that subject.” Orlando’s eyes twinkled. “You were just in the area, were you? Yeah, we often get friends of famous movie stars popping in. Sure, just last week Jerry Bruckheimer called in for a pint of milk, said he was on his way to visit Dustin Hoffman.”
Viggo threw his head back and laughed, a warm throaty sound that sent bolts of electricity to Orlando’s toes. “You're a real comedian, Orlando,” he chuckled.
The younger man winked smugly. “I have my moments.”
“Okay, I guess I’ve been busted.” Serious again, Viggo met the brown eyes squarely and took the bull by the horns, so to speak. “I was wondering if you would care to accompany me on a date tomorrow sometime? It’s Saturday and I am hoping you've got the day off and if you're busy during the day... well then, maybe we could have dinner, or just coffee instead if you want…”
Orlando held up a hand to stop the nervous flow of words. “You're worse than me, with the babbling, Yank.” He grinned to take the sting out of the words.
“Maybe,” Viggo replied, his smile turning coy.. “So, what’s it to be? Do you want to go out tomorrow? With me?”
Neither man noticed the short balding Scot behind the tin aisle who stood with the fingers of both hands crossed and eyes closed, praying silently through gritted teeth. The American had walked right in off the street, saving Dom and him from tracking him down. Billy couldn't believe his luck. Now all he could do was pray Orlando wouldn't retreat into himself and turn the man down. The Scot prayed harder.
“Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes…"
TBC
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Date: 2008-06-21 08:32 am (UTC)can't wait for the next chapter...this one was so wonderfully written...i feel for the ginga, though...:)
thanks for posting
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Date: 2008-06-22 10:30 am (UTC)I know, the ginga was cute. Just not Orli's type, poor boy. :)